


You Know How I Get When I'm Alone

by goodgayegg



Series: Your Song [1]
Category: The 100 (TV), clexa - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Clexa Endgame, F/F, Slow Burn, but it'll take a while
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:53:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgayegg/pseuds/goodgayegg
Summary: It's been three years, but Clarke has never gotten over her break-up with Lexa. Is it time to give up and move on, or will she get another chance?Based on Wrabel's "11 Blocks".





	1. January 26th

**Author's Note:**

> I envision this as a series of three works, with three chapters each, based on three different songs that tell the story of Clarke and Lexa's developing relationship. They are not together now, and probably won't be til the end of the series. They're going to make some bad decisions as they find their way back to each other. If that's not your thing, feel free to click away.
> 
> Also, for people who were reading my other works, my old laptop died and I lost my notes for forthcoming chapters, so I'm getting to it, but it will take some time.

Clarke’s phone went off at 9:23 am, rudely awakening her from her dream. A dream in which things were different. A dream featuring infinite green eyes and luxurious brown hair. A dream she should not have been having anymore. A dream where she wasn’t 28 years old and still sleeping alone. 

There were a few blissful seconds of wrestling with tangled sheets and rubbing sleep from her eyes before Clarke remembered what day it was: three years to the day since _She_ left. This was always a shitty day for Clarke, and she didn’t even have the distraction of work to prevent her wallowing. Her schedule was clear as water, and she cursed herself for not planning better. But, as always, she’d thought this would be the year that January 26th didn’t break her. 

She unlocked her phone to find a text from Octavia.

_O (9:23): Finished the milk with my breakfast. Sorry._

Clarke sighed. At least now she had an excuse to get out of the house. She blundered down the stairs and into the kitchen, burned some toast, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and headed out, fixing her hair in the rearview mirror as she drove. 

// 

The supermarket was okay. It had only opened eighteen months earlier; Clarke had never come there with _Her_. She bought a half-gallon of milk, some chicken and vegetables for dinner, a box of Oreos for Raven, a pint of organic sorbet for Octavia, and a bag of Lindt raspberry truffles for herself. At the last moment, she decided she also deserved a bottle of wine and threw in a 2013 Moscato that was on sale. She chatted with the purple-haired checkout girl and almost felt like a functional human being until she looked at her phone and saw this grand adventure had killed a total of 20 minutes. She felt the urge to sigh again, but it morphed into a yawn. _Right,_ she thought. _Coffee. Should do that._

// 

It was pure instinct that took her to Grounders without even stopping at home to drop off the groceries. She could have used a Starbucks drive-through or something, but no. Not today. _Thanks a lot, brain._ But Grounders had the best coffee in town, and it had been Clarke’s spot long before _She_ had shown up. It could be Clarke’s spot again. 

She stood in line automatically, and the barista’s harsh “NEXT” caught her completely off guard. 

“I’ll have a cinnamon cappuccino, a chocolate chip muffin and—” Clarke choked back _Her_ coffee order like she was trying not to vomit. And she did feel nauseous. 

“AND?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Sorry. That’s it.”

“OKAY. THAT’LL BE $7.25.”

// 

Clarke was officially wallowing. She could have gotten the coffee to-go. She didn’t have to sit at the table by the window and look out at all the normal, happy people on the snowy sidewalk. She didn’t have to—

Clarke did choke this time, inhaling hot coffee and frothed milk. She thought she’d seen—she _had_ seen— _Her. Her_ dark curls tumbling down _Her_ back, almost, but not quite, obscuring the ridiculous black fake-fur ruff on the hood of _Her_ red wool coat. _Who owns a bright red winter coat, anyway?_ It was absurd that there would be more than one of those in the city. But it had to have been someone else. Clarke was sure _She_ didn’t own that coat anymore. Clarke had dropped it off at Goodwill before Christmas last year, along with some more of _Her_ things Raven had dug up in the attic while looking for their holiday decorations. The whole box had still smelled like _Her_ stupid pine and citrus perfume. 

// 

She made it back to her house before 11:00 and did the only thing she could: she painted. Clarke never sold any of her art. Most of the time, she didn’t even let another person lay eyes on it. She just let canvases and sketchbooks pile up in the corner of her room and on the top shelf of her closet, careful to throw a tarp over everything when her mom or one of her roommates (or a rare one-night stand) came in. 

Fifteen minutes in, Clarke could admit to herself that this painting was going to turn out like all the others. She’d been stuck in a rut lately, probably caused by too much time spent on Pinterest and Tumblr. She kept painting silhouettes filled in with galaxies: stars, comets, and nebulae head to toe, but gaping black holes where the hearts should be. This painting showed two galaxy-filled women reaching toward each other from opposite ends of the canvas, separated by a heavy black line. _So dramatic. What a stereotype. I should just cut off my ear and be done with it._ She wondered what her coworkers at the hospital would say if she showed up in the ER with a bleeding hole in the side of her head. The thought made her smile, which was probably a bad sign. 

Despite the fact that she could only paint depressing subjects, the process of setting brush to canvas drastically improved Clarke’s mood. She lost track of time as the scope of her world narrowed to the placement of stars, the gradation of colors, the flow of a line. She poured herself a glass of wine for “lunch”, and a second a couple hours later. 

// 

Knuckles rapped at her bedroom door, rousing Clarke enough for her to realize the sun had set.

“Hey! Princess! You in there?” 

“I, uh,” she cleared her throat. “I’m here, Rae.”

Raven began opening the door as she babbled. “Good, ‘cuz I was thinking about dinner, and I didn’t wanna—”

“Raven!” Clarke interposed herself between her painting and her roommate.

“Chill out, C. I’m not gonna leak the secrets of your masterpiece on Twitter.”

There was a bite to her tone that let Clarke know Raven hadn’t had a good day.

“How’s your leg?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s fine.” She skimmed her fingertips over her knee, as if confirming. “It’s work. We didn’t get the grant.”

Clarke wordlessly offered Raven the bottle of Moscato.

“I think I’m gonna need something a little stronger.”

“G&T?” Clarke suggested. She was the designated household bartender and she knew she had some limes in the back of the fridge. 

“Yes please! And let’s order a pineapple pizza with extra cheese before O gets home and talks us out of it.” 

// 

They had two G&Ts and three slices of pizza each and broke out the Oreos before Octavia arrived. She was horrified, as expected, and spouted her usual nutritionist rant. “…and if you’re going to splurge on carbs and fat, at least make it something that actually tastes good! Pineapple pizza!” She exhaled sharply through her nose, a tiny huff that Clarke knew Raven found adorable, before scooting her way in between Clarke and Raven on the couch. “I’m so glad I grabbed a salad from the hospital café before I left work.”

Raven laughed and kissed Octavia’s nose. “Nice to see you, too, babe.”

Octavia squeezed Raven’s thigh. “I’m sorry, love.” She thought for a moment. “Except no, I’m not, because you two knew exactly what you were doing and took advantage of my not being home to do something you knew would get me worked up.” 

Raven and Clarke shared a glance, then turned to Octavia and tried not to smirk. 

Octavia rolled her eyes. “So, how were your days before this monstrosity?” 

Raven spoke up first. “We didn’t get the grant, O.”

Octavia’s anger evaporated. “You’ll work it out, love. I’m sure you’ll raise the money somehow. You’ve still got months. I know you’ll find a way.” She smiled. “You always do.” She leaned over and softly kissed her girlfriend, running her fingers through the other woman’s hair. Raven hummed contentedly at the contact, and it was too much for Clarke. Her roommates’ cute, functional, romantic relationship always reminded Clarke of what she didn’t have, but tonight it hit too close to home. 

She stretched her arms over her head and faked a yawn. “I’m gonna head upstairs.”

“Hey, don’t forget,” Octavia called after her, “party at Bell’s tonight. No excuses!”

Clarke opened her mouth to argue, but decided it was pointless and went back to her painting for as long as her roommates would allow.

// 

Clarke trailed Raven and Octavia as they stepped through Bellamy’s door just after 10:00 pm. She closed the door behind them, turned toward the stairs, and immediately collided with someone in the cramped rowhouse entryway. Her head tipped back into the wall and she staggered for a moment, seeing stars. It turned out she’d fared better than the other person, who’d been knocked to their knees in front of her. 

“Here. Let me.” Clarke tugged at the arm she was given and found herself face to face with a cute, petite woman a few years her junior, voluminous auburn hair barely contained by her high ponytail. 

“I am so sorry! I was just heading out for a smoke and I saw Octavia come in but I didn’t think there was anyone behind her and I—” 

Clarke cut her off. “It’s fine, really.”

The other woman chuckled. “Okay. Let me backtrack.” She held out her hand. “Zoe Monroe, Bellamy’s friend from soccer.”

“Clarke Griffin. I didn’t know it was a co-ed team.”

“It’s not, technically, but I pestered Lincoln into letting me on this year because the women’s team is kind of shit and no one is interested in improving. Plus, there’s all this drama all the time, and I am not about that life.”

“I hear that. Women are awful.”

The last sentence must have sounded a touch too serious, because Zoe’s eyebrows inched upward and she fixed Clarke with a curious look. “Do you wanna come sit outside with me?”

Clarke hesitated, and Zoe tugged at the cuff of her gray track jacket. “I know it’s horrible for you and I’m trying to quit, I promise. You don’t have to smoke and I’ll totally blow in the other direction.”

“What if I _did_ want to smoke?” Clarke hadn’t smoked since her boarding school days, but she was in the mood to do something stupid. 

Zoe’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “Then I’d be surprised, but you’d be welcome.”

Clarke glanced over Zoe’s shoulder. They were alone in the hallway, Raven and Octavia long gone upstairs to the party. “Lead the way.”

// 

“So,” Zoe let the word hang in the air with the smoke from her cigarette. “Wanna tell me why you’re so down on the ladies?”

Clarke couldn’t help but snicker. “‘Down on the ladies?’ That’s how you want to phrase that?”

“Pun not intended, I promise.” Clarke couldn’t tell if she meant it. “I’m not the most articulate when I’m drunk. And I can’t help it if I’m a huge dork. Better not to pretend otherwise and give you the wrong idea.” She took a breath. “Anyway…”

Clarke didn’t talk about _Her_ with just anyone. She didn’t talk about _Her_ at all anymore if she could help it. But the earnest expression in Zoe’s hazel eyes made her feel safe.  
“Okay. I was with this girl. It was serious. I thought I was gonna marry her, you know? And then I fucked up. She fucked up. We both fucked up. I don’t know. It was just…”

“Fucked up?” Zoe offered.

“Yeah. I haven’t really felt like myself since.” Clarke looked out at the mostly empty street in front of them. 

“It’ll get better. I promise. After my last breakup, I was a real mess. I thought I would never get over her. But here I am, three months later, with a new soccer team, new friends, and I feel great. Granted, I still have her smoking habit, but I’m working on it. This is my first cigarette of the week.”

Clarke had stopped listening about halfway through. “Three months?”

“Yeah. I know it sounds like a long time, but—”

“It’s been three years.”

“Jeez. No offense, but you need to get over her.”

“I know. I’m still making these mental maps in my head of how to get to her apartment, where I can assure you I would not be welcome. She lives 14 blocks from here, in case you were wondering.”

Zoe smirked. “Funny you should say that. I only live two blocks away.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

Clarke checked in with herself. _Am I drunk enough to do this?_ She wasn’t. 

“Tell you what. You’re sweet, and the dorky jock thing is working for you, but I’m just not in that place right now. I will, however, give you my number, in case you want to grab a coffee and talk some time.”

“Deal.” Zoe fished her phone from her pocket and handed it to Clarke. “Honestly, that’s a hell of a lot more than I thought I’d get from someone a beautiful as you.” She took one last drag of her cigarette, then rubbed it out on the concrete steps. 

Clarke chuckled softly as she followed suit and put out her cigarette. “Smooth.” She took Zoe’s hand to pull her to her feet and they headed back inside. Clarke couldn’t resist a quick glance over her shoulder at the city’s dim stars. She made the same wish every night, even when clouds covered the entire sky: _I wish for Lexa to be happy._


	2. April 19th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoe takes Clarke to a bar to watch her team's NWSL game. Clarke isn't interested in soccer, but she *is* interested in the bartender...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Clarke/Niylah here. Not sure if it counts as mature or explicit (let me know). And, yes, Clarke has sex with someone who isn't Lexa. If you don't want to read that, I suggest you don't read this. 
> 
> I would also love people's thoughts on the flashback.

Clarke knew next to nothing about soccer. Not that she was going to join a team or anything—far too much running and sweating, not to mention the garish uniforms. But Zoe mentioned she and some friends from her old soccer team watched NWSL games at a local bar every weekend. According to Zoe, it was a great way to meet girls. And maybe Clarke was ready for something like that. 

Shaw’s was discreet: wrought iron stairs leading down to a small brick patio and a dark green awning over the door to the basement-level pub. Not at all what she’d expected of a gay sports bar. Inside, worn wood floors and leather-cushioned barstools added to the illusion that Clarke had stepped into the public house of some small English village and not a dive bar in a modern American city. 

Zoe, of course, had scored one of the barstools directly in front of the mounted flatscreen, which spewed pre-game commentary at a jarring volume. She briefly tore her eyes from the screen to hug Clarke and usher her onto the neighboring stool, throwing a passing “This is Clarke” to the other assembled women. Clarke got caught up in a whirlwind of introductions: Harper, Fox, Becca, Charlotte, Tris. There was no way she’d remember half of them.

Clarke awkwardly took a seat. She tried to focus on the game, but found her eyes wandering. They landed on the bartender: an attractive, tall blonde whose black tank top revealed a bit too much plush cleavage to be considered professional. _Though maybe in this job, that’s part of the dress code_. Either way, it was hot. 

When the Valkyries scored the first goal of the game with three seconds to go in the first half, the whole bar, including the baseball guys in the corner booth, erupted into celebratory chaos. Zoe took advantage of the ruckus to give Clarke a knowing smirk and a nudge to the shoulder. “Niylah, hm?”

“What?”

“The bartender. Niylah.”

Clarke had always had a thing for unique names. 

“Want me to introduce you?” 

It wasn’t really a question. Before Clarke had a chance to respond, or even think about her answer, Zoe dragged her toward the bar. 

“Hey! Hot stuff! Can we get a refill?” Zoe pounded the empty pitcher on the bartop, sending ice cubes flying across the wood.

Niylah rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh as she wiped the ice into the sink behind the bar. “I don’t know, Monroe,” she drawled. “You seem belligerently intoxicated to me. Maybe I should cut you off, since you can’t even remember my _name_.” She seemed to notice Clarke for the first time. “Your friend, though, can have whatever she wants…”

Zoe smiled crookedly, and now that Niylah mentioned it, Clarke thought her friend did seem a little far gone for 8:00 in the evening. Not belligerent; that part was definitely sarcasm. Just a total ham, which she quickly proved with a bow and a horrible British accent. “Niylah Abramczyk, whose name I _most definitely_ know¬—and can even pronounce, which is more than can be said for a lot of these fuckers—may I present Clarke Griffin.” 

“Pleasure.” Niylah reached across the bar to shake Clarke’s hand, the contact lasting too long to leave Clarke with much doubt that the appreciation was mutual. She poured another pitcher of beer for Zoe, who took it as an opportunity for a swift getaway back to the incomprehensible (to Clarke, at least) halftime commentary. 

//

“New to the team?” Niylah asked lightly.

Clarke coughed and sputtered around her first sip of complimentary G&T. “No! I, uh...”

“Soccer. The soccer team. Trust me, cutie, I can spot a baby dyke from a mile away.” Clarke’s shoulders relaxed from their previous position near her earlobes. “Besides, Monroe wouldn’t try to set me up with one.” And up went the shoulders. Clarke assumed Niylah was pretending not to notice her complete lack of chill. 

“Sorry. I’m not new to this, but it has been a while. And I’m not actually on the soccer team. Zoe isn’t anymore, either. She switched over to the men’s team.”

“Wow. Good for her. I used to be on the women’s team. I saw how Ontari treated her.”

Clarke nodded, though she really didn’t know much about Zoe’s ex. A steep drop in the bar’s ambient volume informed her that the second half had started. “I should probably get back…”

Amusement colored Niylah’s cheeks and brightened her golden-brown eyes. “Or you could stay here. Monroe probably won’t even notice.” Clarke’s nervousness around Niylah warred with her boredom where soccer was concerned. Boredom must have won out on her face, because Niylah chuckled. “You don’t give a damn about soccer, do you, Clarke?”

She shook her head, laughing along. “I really, really don’t.”

“Good thing soccer isn’t my only game, then.” And Niylah winked. Honest to God _winked_. Clarke was not as prepared for this as she’d thought. But Niylah was beautiful and sweet and funny and interested and right there. And Clarke had dressed up, giving Octavia free rein over her makeup and letting Zoe fishtail braid her hair. She looked good. It was a Friday night. Drinks were on the house. There was nothing standing in her way. _Except…_

It took two more G&Ts, a beer, and a celebratory shot for the Valkyries’ 1-0 victory, but Clarke managed to silence “except…” and all her other inhibitions along with it. 

//

At 10:00, Niylah’s shift ended. At 10:07, she kissed Clarke. At 10:09, they were hand in hand as Niylah led the way to her motorcycle, parked in the alley behind the bar. At 10:31, they arrived at a quaint block of condos just outside the city limits. Clarke followed Niylah into her ground level unit, into her living room, into her bedroom, chasing Niylah’s kisses all the way. Niylah shut the bedroom door behind them and backed Clarke into it, hands firmly grasping at her hips, grazing the skin above the waistband of her jeans. Clarke let out a breathy little gasp. She always forgot what it was like. Memory could never do justice to the intensity of this feeling, of the heady anticipation that preceded a first time. 

 

_“I’ve never…I…Lexa…” As much as she would love to melt into Lexa’s insistent touch, this is important. “I have…to tell you…something…”_

_Lexa pulls back. “You’ve never…?” She knows. She_ has to _know what Clarke is trying to say. But she waits for her to say it._

_“I’veneverhadsexwithawomanbefore.”_

_Lexa looks up at her through those gorgeous, thick eyelashes. Her voice is almost a whisper. “Do you want to?”_

_Something in Clarke snaps. She grabs Lexa by the shoulders, pulling her down on top of her. “God, yes.”_

 

Clarke came against the door with Niylah’s fingers inside her. It was hot and fast and everything she needed right now—and nothing like that other first time.

They were both still fully clothed. Niylah removed her hand from Clarke’s pants and sucked it clean. Clarke groaned and clutched the doorknob behind her, wobbling in her high heels. 

“So,” Niylah ventured as she guided Clarke to the bed. “How’s my game?”

Clarke smirked, pretending to much more composure than she actually felt. “I hope you aren’t getting cocky, ‘cuz it isn’t even halftime yet.” 

Clarke could play this game. She could have fun. She could thread her fingers in blonde hair, press a thigh to damp cotton, nip along exposed skin. She could trace the patterns of the other woman’s moans, learning how to please her. She could, and she did, and she loved it. _Except…_

When Niylah finally flipped her onto her back and rid her of her underwear, Clarke silenced “except…”, or at least covered it with screams.


	3. June 21st

The clock on the DVD player read 8:57 PM, but Clarke could still see daylight encroaching at the edges of the window blinds. The sunset would probably be beautiful if she could see it. But they’d been inside all day marathoning Harry Potter movies. This was Octavia’s third attempt to subject Clarke and Raven to this 16+ hour absurdity on the longest day of the year. As if the solstice elongated the span of the day and not just the sunlight. And this year, Niylah had been roped in, too. She’d been roped into just about every roommate bonding activity in the last few weeks. 

It wasn’t that Clarke had been trying to hide Niylah from Raven and Octavia. It was a new relationship, was all. Some days, Clarke wasn’t sure it even counted as a relationship. She and Niylah saw each other a lot, but it had basically just been sex (good sex, _great_ sex, can’t-see-or-think-or- **be** -straight sex). And Clarke would sleep over at Niylah’s or Niylah would sleep over at Clarke’s, and maybe they’d have breakfast, but they didn’t go out to dinner or clubs and Clarke didn’t return to Shaw’s. And they certainly didn’t discuss it. 

Then, the third time Niylah slept over, she’d drawn Clarke out of bed with the scintillating promise of a shared shower. Somewhere between soapy hands on smooth curves and breathy moans against tiled walls, they’d heard a scream that hadn’t come from either of them. She’d popped her head out to apologize to Raven, then fled to her room to change. When she’d emerged not five minutes later, she’d found Niylah, clad only in a towel, passionately debating Star Trek captains with Raven. The noise roused Octavia, who had been offended at being the last to find out about Clarke’s new “girlfriend” and demanded she come by for movie night that weekend. And every weekend since. 

Clarke and Niylah hadn’t brought up the G word, but Clarke let Octavia say what she wanted to say. And Niylah was good for Clarke. Niylah liked Raven and Octavia. She liked movies and pizza and soda and beer. And these movie nights weren’t double dates, because Clarke and Niylah weren’t dating. They held hands and cuddled and they texted nearly constantly, but Niylah hadn’t asked and Clarke hadn’t said, so they weren’t.

They were halfway through _The Half-Blood Prince_ —Clarke’s least favorite of the series, for obvious reasons—when Clarke suddenly couldn’t be there anymore. She pulled out of Niylah’s grasp and rose from the couch. 

“Clarke?” Niylah almost pouted. 

“I need some air. I’m going for a walk. Be back soon.”

She kissed Niylah’s hair and was out the door before Octavia could pause the movie.

//

She had no idea where she was going. She had no idea what she was doing. She rarely did anymore. 

She had a great job that she didn’t fail at most of the time (the success of her modified skin grafting technique on the victims of last month’s apartment fire had her boss suggesting she submit an article to _American Medicine_ , and even impressed her mother). She had good, supportive friends, even if Raven constantly made terrible puns and Octavia was always using Clarke as a guinea pig for her weird health food recipes. She had wonderful sex and companionship on a regular basis. She should be happy. But Clarke wasn’t sure she’d know happiness if it landed on top of her. Maybe she _was_ happy and just had to get over herself to see it. And maybe she could use a drink.

//

She hadn’t played this game since college: the “how many different people can I get to buy me drinks tonight?” game. She was still just as good at it. She’d had one shot for each text she’d received and call she’d missed.

 

_O (10:17 PM): Are you okay?_

_Missed call – O (10:23 PM)_

_Niylah (10:29 PM): Clarke? We’re worried about you._

_Niylah (10:29 PM): I’m worried about you._

_Missed call – Niylah (10:35 PM)_

_Niylah (10:59 PM): I can go home if that’s what you want._

_Niylah (11:16 PM): I’m staying til we finish the movies. O insisted. Then I’m going home._

_Niylah (11:18 PM): You know where to find me._

 

Clarke knew she was being a shitty friend and an even worse not-girlfriend. And she didn’t even know why she was doing it. She refused at least three separate offers to take her home. She wasn’t _that_ drunk. She could get back to her house. And she certainly didn’t want to go home with some sleazy, handsy, bearded guy right now. She just…needed some fresh air.

There was a park around the corner from the bar. Clarke knew it. It was near the university where she’d gone to med school. Zoe played pick-up soccer here sometimes. She’d invited Clarke to watch, or maybe join in, but Clarke had always declined. Because the first time she’d been here…

 

_Lexa is fast. Clarke knows this, knows she runs each morning, rising earlier than the sun. But Lexa taps her shoulder and yells “Tag!” and Clarke is sprinting and her lungs are burning and she only falls further behind._

_Luckily, Lexa stops at the base of the biggest tree in the park. She kisses what little breath remains from Clarke’s lungs. She says, “This was my place, growing up. When I needed to be alone, I’d climb this tree and be on top of the world.” Her eyes sparkle in the waning light and Clarke sees it so easily: little Lexa, all elbows and knees and frizzy pigtails, scrambling up the wideset branches. Clarke often forgets how young Lexa is—still an undergrad, while Clarke is halfway through med school. And then Lexa disappears into the tree and Clarke sighs and follows her, like she knows she’ll be following her for a long time._

 

And the last time she’d been here…

 

_She can’t do this anymore. The calling, the texting, the standing on the sidewalk outside her building trying (and failing) to work up the courage to walk inside. To buzz her apartment and be ignored, be turned down, again. So, she sits on a swing, shoes scraping through the woodchips, and looks up at the stars._

_Everyone tells her she can’t do this anymore._

_Her mom: “Your academic performance is slipping, and you have a responsibility to real patients now, Clarke.”_

_Octavia: “It isn’t healthy, Clarke. You have to let her come back to you in her own time, and take care of yourself.”_

_Raven: “I’m all for doing what you need to do, Griff, but if it makes you feel shittier than you already do, do you actually need to do it?”_

_Finn: “We could get coffee and talk some time, if that would help.”_

_She can’t do this anymore, but she also can’t give up, right? People don’t give up on the people they love. Giving up is just another form of failing._

 

Clarke’s feet started moving, her brain a few steps behind. She took a right on 21st Street, a left on Marigold. She ducked into the alley that always smelled like French fries. She crossed Barber Avenue, walked down two blocks, took one more right turn, and there she was. 

The building was mostly dark, but the soft glow of a desk lamp was visible through the black-and-white tree patterned curtains on the window at the end of the third floor. _Her_ window. She was probably writing. She was always writing—or she used to be, anyway. Clarke stood on the sidewalk, basking in that small light as if it were the sun. _She’s home._

This was the moment. She walked up the steps and into the foyer. The label for apartment 311 still read “Woods.” She pressed the button.

The intercom crackled for a long, long moment before a familiar voice came down the line. 

“Hello?”

“Lexa.”


End file.
